


confirmation

by orphan_account



Series: stories about Craig. [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - High School, Cheating, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Relationships, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Support Group, antidepressants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18988375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Craig and Tweek bring Stan to their depression and medication support group. It’s the start of moving forward.-Interrelated vignettes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.

The support group stops working after a while.

Craig doesn’t understand how opening yourself up to struggling strangers accomplishes something. The novelty of the idea wore off within the first month of attending. Tweek met some like-minded people; on the whole, that makes sense. He befriends people with much less reticence than Craig.

That’s probably why he doesn’t hesitate to drop whatever he’s doing every Wednesday evening and drag Craig into Stan’s fucked up Camry so he can chauffeur them to group.

He and Craig sit in the back in the midst of junk Stan and Kyle are in the process of clearing out, blankets and empty bottles from a nearby distillery eclipsing their sneakers. Tweek makes a point of thanking Stan every time, talking over the abrasive screaming plugged into the aux.

Stan says, “Literally no problem. They know my name at the Starbucks now.” That’s where he camps out most nights during the hour-long group session.

Craig snorts. “Do you have a regular order?”

“Caramel macchiato. Extra cream, extra sugar. I can afford it if I don’t sleep for shit.”

Craig wonders whether Stan means to dredge up any form of misplaced guilt and then promptly forgets about it. “More time for homework, of course.”

Stan quirks his brow through the rearview mirror. “Homework? Who’s that bitch?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Tweek says, and Craig’s relieved he’s spoken, sliding Tweek’s hand in his. “You should sit in with us, Stan.”

Immediately, Craig senses the kind of shift you don’t catch if you’re not paying close attention: a hardening around the eyes, something innately open and approachable shuttered and displaced by a stranger’s blank visage.

It’s eerie how easily Stan undergoes this transformation.

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

On any other night, Craig would pick up on that definite punctuation mark as the end of their conversation. Tonight, though, he can afford to ignore it: “Seriously, worst case scenario is you’re triggered by someone’s Xanax and Juuling horror story and you hightail it outta there, in which case Tweek and I would accompany you.”

Tweek stares at him. He still doesn’t understand how Craig compartmentalizes anyone’s triggers besides their own as bothersome character traits.

“Yeah, this is why I can’t be bothered, Tweek.” In an effort to drown his raised voice into submission, Stan dials up the volume on the aux. “This bullshit.”

Disengaging from Tweek’s hand, Craig reaches forward to wrench the aux cord from the radio. The absence of funereal wailing smashes into his chest.

He says, “If you can’t even talk your shit out with Kyle, who’s to say you won’t come out a changed man?”

“Fuck you with a chainsaw, Tucker.” Throttling the gearshift into Park, Stan stills the Camry into their usual spot, dangerously close to the kerb near the public library. “Asshole.”

Magnanimous, his slow smile broadening as he reaches across Tweek’s lap for their door, Craig says, “I’ll make introductions.”

“You piece of shit.”

Starbucks can afford to lose their most loyal customer for one night.

Craig shares a brief and wordless exchange with Tweek. Mystified, his brows daring to graze across scattered bangs, Tweek’s head swivels with a violent _what the fuck._

Someone rams into Craig’s shoulder with the entirety of their upper body strength.

“Jesusfuck, Stan.”

Scowling, Stan says, “Last time I checked, we didn’t come to admire the mid-century modern architecture of some old white man’s wet dream.”

“I mean, yeah, we didn’t. But now everyone within a five foot radius probably is, so thank you on their behalf.”

Stan stalks past Tweek, who holds the door open with a patience that does not meet his eyes.

Craig says, “Did I fuck up, babe?”

Tweek nods vehemently.

“Got it. I needed your confirmation.”

From halfway down the corridor, Stan yells, “Are you shitstains gonna hurry up or is this my nightmare?”

It’s someone’s, for sure, Craig reckons. But not his, for once. 


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t introduce Stan to any of the group members. Stan doesn’t engage any of them in conversation, deferring to Tweek for interactions. Tweek doesn’t take to his role as the mediator. He’s used to facilitating comfortable meetings for Craig and doesn’t have the energy to take on the same draining challenge again.

The group moderator enters the meeting room five minutes past six. He’s a devoted patron of the library with a kind and open-hearted smile that you don’t want to mangle. Craig wonders if he wants to help people or whether he indulges in the image of himself helping people. Over time, he’s noted this tendency, that of evaluating kindness through a cynical lens. His counselor argues his worldview stems from something bigger, but Craig deflects such tangents with convenient problems at home. Shit at home doesn’t change, ergo it’s a safe topic.

“We’ve got a new friend today,” says Tim, the well-meaning moderator. Craig neglected to mention Tim is the type of guy who will refer to utter strangers as friends. He regrets omitting this crucial bit of trivia, given Stan’s deepening scowl. Sitting between them, Tweek swears under his breath.

“Feel free to introduce yourself on your own terms,” Tim says.

Stan smiles, sarcasm laced with venom. “Thanks.”

Tweek rolls his eyes. He’s fidgeting with the distressed hem of his camouflaged hoodie. Craig walks his fingers slowly across the hemline, and Tweek holds them in place.

“Okay, who wants to start us off?”

Adjusting the tablet in his lap, the screen glowing with names of the evening’s attendants, Tim scans the sphere of expectant participants. His mouth opening with a startled smile, he gestures with his right hand, inviting Craig to speak with a slight wave.

“I’ve got this one friend who’s dating this guy, and they’ve been going out for a fucking long time. Anyways,” and here Craig adopts the tone of one who means to address a specific individual without acknowledging their response, “I’ll call this friend S.”

Stan’s scowl reminds Craig of his expression the night Cartman said he’d watch the two of them fuck for good money.

“S won’t talk his shit out. I’m trying to help him, but it’s exhausting. He’d take Xanax and weed over his boyfriend any day.”

“Craig,” Stan says, “shut the fuck up.”

Tweek swipes his hand from beneath Craig’s fingers, bristling.

Hardening, Craig says, “I’m done with your bullshit.”

“Shut up before I vivisect your self-esteem.”

Tweek shuts his eyes and speaks with a deliberate slowness: “Stan, do you really think   
Kyle doesn’t know you’re fucking Craig?”

For the rest of the meeting, neither of them speak.


	3. Chapter 3

They’re on the way back to Craig’s house where Stan always drops them off, regardless of Tweek’s plans. Craig wants to ask why Stan insists on his house every time but refrains, knowing an accusation of hypocrisy will follow. Sometimes he senses Stan relies on hypocrisy for the sake of an argument. He wonders if they might communicate differently apart from arguing.

“I wish you’d speak up,” Tweek says. The words deflate on his tongue, bubbles of air popping in an empty vacuum. He doesn’t meet Craig’s eyes, preferring to stare out the window at the passing gas stations and faraway mountains.

“Not much to go on, babe.”

Tweek’s eyes widen, and he blinks before facing the window entirely, his hair skirting blurred mountaintops.

“You know what’s sad,” Stan says, and Craig can’t tell by his tone if he means this in a rhetorical sense or whether he means to launch into an anecdotal clusterfuck.

Tweek’s hand comes to rest on the window, smeared with condensation. Craig reaches for him, but Tweek swipes his upper arm, hard. “We’re listening,” he says.

Stan snorts, presumably at Craig rubbing the sore gap between his neck and right shoulder. “We live in such a fucking gorgeous place, and we don’t care because we’re too busy screwing up our lives.”

Tweek’s posture stiffens. Crossing his arms, Craig slides his foot beneath Stan’s seat and rams his heel upward, inclining the machinery propelling the seat forward with a jolt.

He says, “Ask me if I wanted this.”

Stan stares at the intersection ahead, a smile settling halfway on his lips. “No.”

Turning halfway from the window, Tweek’s eyes widen, uncomprehending as Craig slides his foot all the way beneath the driver’s seat. “Craig, you’re going to cause an accident.”

Swearing, hoarse, Stan brakes. Holding his middle finger against the steering wheel, he keeps it pinned below the rearview mirror as he steers the car into the right-hand lane with his left arm, expressionless.

“Craig,” Tweek says, breathing hard. “Why the fuck are we going to this group if you’re still such a dick?”

For the second time that evening, neither of them can process Tweek’s question in the immediate aftermath.

They pull up to Craig’s house, Stan resting his forehead against the steering wheel, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His hat slopes in a precarious bundle off of his head.

“Someone’s calling you,” Craig says, gesturing to the phone nudging Stan’s thigh. The dark strings of his knitted hat dangle down Stan’s arms.

“Fuck off.”

 “Answer it,” Tweek says, one foot on the kerb with the other still wedged in the car. “Speak.”

 Stan watches the two of them head in through Craig’s front door, his phone vibrating as snow smears his windows.


End file.
